Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,34
weather’s like this. The sun is warm, but the air is cool. You couldn’t ask for a better day.”
Rosco angled the Jeep down a long slope and over a small wood-plank bridge that stretched above a narrow stream. He then headed up the opposite hill. When they reached the top they were greeted by a seemingly endless stretch of King Wenstarin Farms’ white fencing.
“It sure is a huge operation,” Belle said. “Maintenance alone is a mind-boggling concept. It’s a good thing I’m not the one responsible for keeping it tidy.”
“I’ll say.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “I’m going to ignore that comment. Besides, I happen to be very handy with a vacuum cleaner.”
“When cooking meat loaf.”
“Hardy har har. You’re just jealous because I can handle a vacuum with surgical skill.”
Rosco slowed the Jeep as they neared the King Wenstarin Farms gate. Sitting in the same grassy patch where he’d parked on Saturday was a Newcastle Police cruiser, while a uniformed officer stood beside the guard house. He was a burly man who radiated an air of old-fashioned invincibility and confidence.
“I wonder what he’s doing out here?” Rosco said as he pulled the Jeep alongside the cruiser and set the parking brake.
Belle noticed the frown on her husband’s face. “What’s wrong? Do you know him?”
“Will Jordan. He’s a good cop. Been on the force for fifteen or so years.”
“So why the sour look?”
“Al Lever likes to use Will when he needs someone to keep the looky-loos away from crime scenes. Will handles himself very diplomatically for such a big and seemingly tough guy; he’s polite but firm and always commands respect, i.e., nobody messes with him.” Rosco shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s nothing. There’s only one way to find out.” He stepped from the Jeep and approached Jordan, who was now chatting affably with Pete, the security guard. Rosco extended his hand to the cop. “Good to see you, Will. How’ve you been?”
“Hangin’ in there.” He cocked his head toward the long lane of copper beeches. “Are you in on this one?”
“I’ve been looking into the fire. Is Lieutenant Lever here for some reason?”
“The whole gang’s up there; Lever, Carlyle, Jones, police photographer, the print boys, you name it.”
“You mean there’s been a homicide?”
“Yep. Ryan Collins. Someone ran a hoof pick into the side of her head last night.”
Belle approached at this moment and let out a slight gasp as she heard the news. “Oh, no, that’s horrible.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Will told her. “I didn’t see you walking up. That was a little insensitive, the way I said that. Were you friends?”
“No. No, I didn’t know her.”
“Can we go in?” Rosco asked.
“I’d better check with Lever first. You know how he can get with unexpected guests.” Jordan removed his radio from his belt, cleared Rosco’s visit, and told Pete to open the gate. When Rosco drove past he added, “You might want to keep your wife away from the actual scene; it’s not a pretty picture.”
“I guess they haven’t removed her body yet,” Rosco said as they drove along the long lane, then he added a bleak, “So much for our pleasant day in the country.” He turned and faced Belle. “Would you rather wait at the guard house? I’d offer to take you home, but I think I should take a look at this before the crime scene squad packs up. Who knows? The homicide may be connected to the fire in some way.”
Belle folded her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling more than just the chill in the air as they passed into the shade of the beech trees. “No, that’s okay. But I think I’ll take Officer Jordan’s advice and stay far away from the crime scene.”
When they reached the mansion, Rosco parked beside Al Lever’s “unmarked” car, a dark-brown, four-door Chevy sedan that every crook in Newcastle instantly recognized as a police vehicle. Then they silently crossed the lawn, walked up the steps, and entered the house. The foyer in which they found themselves was as grand as the home’s exterior: two open, soaring stories with pink marble flooring and peach-colored walls hung with numerous paintings of tranquil horses in bucolic settings. A large crystal chandelier dangled dramatically down, while a circular staircase of the same rosy marble spiraled upward around it. Despite all the hard surfaces, the space was deathly quiet; the only noise was a subdued murmur of voices coming from a room giving onto the foyer and another quiet mumble that seemed to proceed